Thoughts on Dreams

Tucked in Keyholes

There are dreams all over the place in my house…caught in forgotten corners specked with tiny spiders, hidden under the cellar steps, blending into the wallpaper, stuck in keyholes, drifting in the flour bin, sleeping under the eaves. Dreams lodged in cinnamon-stained cookbooks, tucked deep in the round toes of winter boots, woven into the bicycle basket, asleep in decades-old love letters in the attic.

When I happen upon a dream, I think it’s best to pretend I don’t see it, the way I used to try not to see my skittery cat, Carlie, seemingly asleep in the wing chair. One direct look and Carlie would vanish in a poof of hair and dust. Dreams are like that, preferring to be regarded obliquely, their mystery honored, kept intact.

If, let’s say, there is a dream written in ancient script on yellowed paper and snagged in torn lace at the window, pay it no mind until spring when May breezes billow the curtain to life. If, perchance, the dream is written in charcoal on the back bricks of the fireplace, wait until the logs smolder and the night falls deep, wait until the black letters and the black night are one and the same.

It’s also a good idea to wear socks or flannel skirts around a dream, so as not to startle it. If it wants to, if it recognizes your tenderness, the fragility of your heart, it will release itself into your nimble fingers. Once in your hands, it’s recommended that you sit by the fire and hold it like a wisp of milkweed, for at any moment, the dream can fly right out the window or settle itself forever under a loose floorboard.

With this tip-toe approach, I’ve come to know that my house is dreaming of staying warm this winter, of its regard for the house next door, of being mushroom gray instead of stark white, of trading its worn clapboards for weathered shingles, of looking out on a green lake instead of scraggly rhododendrons and a dusty Main Street.

I know that my car dreams of more pickup (and a pickup across town), of a day at the spa, of a road trip to Maine, of a radio that only plays music that makes its little engine soar, of a sparkly dashboard ornament.

I dream of perfect hearing and strong knees, of writing poems that illuminate the inner places, of making beautiful omelets, of speaking French, learning to swim.

Dreams are all over the place, full of quirks and capriciousness. It will take some doing, but if you’re patient and kind and remember to avert your eyes, they will bloom right in your hand.